“Not what you expected, Miss White?” Winthrop chided as she stiffened on a sudden hair-raising curve as he gunned the truck up what seemed like a mountainside. “Montana isn’t all pretty little photographs in coffee-table books.”
“It’s very mountainous,” she began.
“That it is.” He wheeled around another curve, and she got a sickening view of the valley below. It was just like the Great Smoky Mountains, only worse. The Smokies were high and rounded with age, but the Rockies were sharp and young and much higher. Nicky, who had no head at all for heights, began to feel sick.
“Are you all right, Nicky?” Gerald asked with concern. “You’ve gone white.”
“I’m fine.” She swallowed. Not for the world would she let Winthrop see what his careless wheeling was accomplishing. She held on to her purse for dear life and stared straight ahead, her jaw set, her green eyes unblinking.
Winthrop, who saw her stubborn resolve, smiled faintly to himself. Nicky might have been surprised to know how much it took to make him smile these days.
Another few miles, and they began to descend. The valley that opened before them took Nicky’s breath away. She forgot her nausea in the sheer joy of appreciation. She leaned forward, with her slender hand on the dash, her eyes wide, her breath whispering out softly.
“Heaven,” she breathed, smiling at maples gone scarlet and gold, at huge fir trees, delicate aspens and fluffy cottonwoods and the wide swath of a river cutting through it all, leading far into the distance like a silver ribbon. “Oh, it’s heaven!”
Winthrop’s eyebrows levered up another fraction as he slowed the truck to give her a better view. At the end of the road was a house, a huge sprawling two-story house that seemed part of its environs. It was made of redwood, with decks on all sides and an enormous porch that seemed to go all the way around it. It had to have fireplaces, because smoke was coming from two chimneys. Maples were all around it, too ordered not to have been planted deliberately years before, and with the mountains all around, it had a majesty that a castle would have envied.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” Gerald sighed. “Every time I leave it, I get homesick. Winthrop hasn’t changed a single thing about it, either. It’s been this way for forty years or more, since our mother planted those maples around the house when our father built it.”
“I thought they looked as if someone had planted them.” Nicky laughed. “They’re in a perfect semicircle around the back of the house.”
“Some city people might think that trees grow in perfect order,” Winthrop mused, glancing coldly at Nicky. “Amazing, that you were able to pick it out so easily.”
“Oh, Nicky grew up on a farm, didn’t you, country girl?” Gerald grinned, tweaking her hair. “Way over in Kentucky.”
“Good thing they plant trees in perfect order in Kentucky, and teach native sons and daughters to recognize the difference between a planted tree and a naturally seeded tree,” Winthrop said without looking at her. “I guess there are people who assume God planted them in rows.”
That was a dig, and Nicky wondered what the big man would do if she leaned over and bit him. That amused her and she had to fight to keep from grinning. He was watching her again, his eyes darkly piercing. He disturbed her so much that she dragged her gaze away and felt her cheeks go hot. It was incredible how easily this man got through her defenses. She was going to have to be careful to keep out of his way.
“Did I write you about the Eastern sportsmen I’m expecting week after next?” Winthrop asked Gerald unexpectedly. “I’ve organized a moose hunt for them, but I’ll warn you in plenty of time to keep out of the section I’m planning to hunt.”
“I remember.” Gerald nodded. “I hope they have some savvy about weapons. Remember the solitary hunter who came one winter and shot your prize bull?”
Winthrop glared at him. “That wasn’t funny,” he said and glared at his two passengers, who were fighting smiles.
“Damned fool couldn’t tell a stud bull from a deer….” Winthrop wheeled the truck up the dirt drive. “These are my Herefords,” he added, nodding toward the red-and white-coated herds grazing across the flat plain toward the river. “They’re in winter pasture now. I rent some government land for grazing, but I own most of it. It’s been a bumper crop of hay this year. There’s enough to spare for a change.”
Nicole, who knew about farming and winter feed, nodded. “The southern states aren’t having such luck,” she remarked. “Drought has very nearly ruined a lot of cattlemen and farmers.” She didn’t question the way he spoke with possession about the family ranch, since Gerald had already told her that Winthrop had complete control of it.
Winthrop frowned as he glanced at her, but he didn’t say anything. Her name, her last name, rang a bell, but he couldn’t remember why. No matter, he thought; he’d remember eventually where he’d heard it before.
He parked the truck at the door of the huge house and got out, leaving Gerald to help Nicky to the ground.
A big, elderly woman came ambling out onto the front porch to meet them. She had high cheekbones and a straight nose, and she was very dark.
“That’s Mary,” Winthrop said, introducing her. “She’s been here since I was a boy. She keeps house and cooks. Her husband, Mack, is my horse wrangler.”
“Nice girl,” Mary muttered, watching Nicole closely as the three newcomers came up onto the porch. “Long legs, good lines. Plain face but honest. Which one of you is going to marry her?” she demanded, looking from Gerald to Winthrop with a mischievous smile.
“I wouldn’t have a woman, fried, with catsup,” Winthrop replied without blinking, “but Gerald may have hopes.”
Before Gerald could say anything, Nicky got herself together enough to reply. She did it without looking at Winthrop, because her cheeks were flushed with temper and embarrassment.
“I’m Mr. Christopher’s secretary, Nicole White,” Nicky said quickly, and forced a smile as she extended her hand. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m only here to work.”
“And that is a disappointment,” the woman sighed. “Two bachelors, all the time. It weighs heavy on my heart. Come. I will settle you.”
“Mary is Sioux,” Winthrop told Nicole. “And plainspoken. Too plainspoken, at times,” he added, glaring at Mary’s broad back.
Mary whirled with amazing speed for such a big woman and made some strange gestures with her hand. Winthrop’s eyes gleamed. He made some back. Mary huffed and went up the long, smooth staircase.
“What did you do?” Nicole asked, amazed.
Winthrop looked down at her from his great height, his eyes faintly hostile but temporarily indulgent. “The Plains Indians spoke different languages. They had to have some way to communicate, in the old days, so they did it with signs. This,” he added, drawing his hand, palm down, across his forehead, “for instance, means white man or paleface. The sign refers to this part of a man’s forehead that was usually covered by a hat and so didn’t get tanned like the rest of him. It was pale. This,” he continued, rubbing two fingers in a long oval on the back of his